Lab Rat King/Silvio Leon Vs. Mitch Heart/Jonathan Willis

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Webmistress Barbie
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Posts: 221

Lab Rat King/Silvio Leon Vs. Mitch Heart/Jonathan Willis Jul 23, 2020 7:39:21 GMT -5

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Post by Webmistress Barbie on Jul 23, 2020 7:39:21 GMT -5

Tag Team Match!
Standard Rules!

2 RP Limit (Per Team. 1 Per Member - BEST RP FROM EACH TEAM WILL BE USED FOR JUDGING!!)
4000 Word Limit

Please check your word count
Via: www.wordcountertool.com/

Deadline: Sunday, August 2nd, 2020 at 11:59pm Eastern

Good Luck!

mystifyingoracle
Chaos Wrestlers

Fortune Favors the Bold

Posts: 75

Lab Rat King/Silvio Leon Vs. Mitch Heart/Jonathan Willis Jul 27, 2020 20:51:37 GMT -5 Jon Willis likes this

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Post by mystifyingoracle on Jul 27, 2020 20:51:37 GMT -5

OOC: This was a lot of fun to write. Thank you to my collaborator, Lab Rat King. The title for this piece is a link to a Wordpress post if that is your reading format preference. If you haven't yet, I highly recommend reading the Character Development piece that Lab Rat King and I put together prior to reading this Chaos 96 RP: The Rat and The Bat. Good luck, everyone!

Card III: The Moon

    “You still good?”

    Silvio leaned out the front door of his tattoo parlor, one hand holding the frame while the other held a cell phone to his ear.

    “Yeah. I think so.”

    Zane held the burner phone - recently acquired - to his ear, pacing slowly down the alleyway next to the shop. He looked a bit uncertain.

    “I guess I don’t need to see you.”

    “Guess not,” Silvio agreed. “Let’s try a little farther.”

    While Silvio knew the cosmic entity attached to his brain subsisted off of chaos, spectacle and madness, that it might also sap the big man’s insanity hadn’t occurred to him. So it happened that he had gotten to have an actual conversation with a lucid Zane King and learn a little more about his current predicament. The ‘escaped science experiment,’ gimmick wasn’t fake, and his mind was split between two different personalities: the violent, animalistic, ‘Big Guy,’ and the exhausted, amnesiac, ‘Little Man.’ Silvio had guessed that if closer proximity to him increased Zane’s lucidity, distance might decrease it. With their tag match coming up, knowing just how long a leash they had before the Big Guy took over would be important.

    “Alright, if you’re sure. I’ll keep walking.”

    King couldn’t ignore the nervous vibration in his own body; his heart felt like a kick drum. It was a strange feeling, this lucidity he hadn’t felt in… hell, he had no idea how long. Years? He was so used to experiencing his own life as a passive observer. Now he’d discovered that somehow - and he still had no clue how - being around this quirky, ink-slinging babyface allowed him to think clearly, even if only for short bursts of time.

    The strangest part, maybe, was that he was almost afraid of flying on his own wings again, so to speak. There was a comfort brought on by being able to shut out reality and let someone bigger and angrier call the shots. That vulnerability was something he wasn’t used to.

    “So far so good… I think we’re at about 15 feet? Should I try going to the end of the alley?”

    “Go for it,” Silvio said.

    “Alright, I’m gonna go just a bit… bit…”

    Zane’s voice trailed off. Over the phone, Silvio heard a throaty noise like a wheezing dog.

    “I think we found our limit-!”

    Silvio left the doorway, sprinting after Zane, hoping to catch him before he lapsed entirely into his less stable persona.

    When Silvio rounded the corner, he could see Zane swaying to the left and right a bit erratically, one hand clutching his hair. The phone lay on the pavement, temporarily forgotten. He snarled with his head bowed, drawing wheezing and uneven breath.

    “Give me back… my TEETH--!!”

    Swerving around Zane to get in his line of sight, Silvio held up his hands placatingly. “It’s cool! Nobody’s got your teeth but you, Zane!” There was a tiny part of the artist that was afraid the big fellow might chokeslam him before he became lucid again, but they were partners for now. There had to be a certain level of trust between them.

    There was a tense moment of uncertainty, but as soon as King’s eyes settled on Silvio again, he seemed to wind down. His shoulders relaxed, and the grip he had on his own hair loosened until he sighed, dropping both arms. He looked a bit like he wanted to pass out.

    “That’s a headache. Ow.”

    “I think that answers an important question for us. Let’s go inside, get you some water, and talk strategy.” Silvio scooped up the burner phone before placing a guiding hand on King’s arm. “It’s going to be interesting. The teams here are kinda mirrors of each other. You and Mitch; me and Jon.” Leading him back inside and gesturing to a tattoo chair for King to sit on, Silvio locked the door behind them and went to get his guest some water. “Our fighting styles are wildly different, but that might work for us.”

    By the time the pair were settled back down in the tattoo parlor, King seemed to be doing better. He took the seat on the tattooing chair with a sigh, getting his bearings again. It was such a difficult feeling to describe - like falling asleep suddenly on his feet, waking up having lost time. Robbing himself of seconds, minutes, hours. Weeks, months. And yet, he was vaguely aware of this and that that had transpired within that gap.

    Coming back to the present, he accepted the glass of water as Silvio returned with it, accompanied by a nod of thanks.

    “Well, I’ve fought Willis already, so I know what to expect there… more or less. I don’t know a damn thing about Mitch Heart, though.”

    Silvio didn’t want to fight Mitch. The Heartbreaker seemed like he had started to trust the Oracle, and getting into a tussle with him was likely going to be a setback.

    “He’s ruthless,” Silvio said as he pulled up a stool next to Zane. “He strikes me more of a boxer or brawler than a wrestler. Seemed hyper-vigilant when I met him at the gym - could be past trauma. And he isn’t one to flinch at a bit of the old ultra-violence, as it were.”

    A bit of the old ultra-violence? That almost stirred a memory. Something he’d known before. King suddenly found himself craving a cold glass of milk.

    Hunh.

    He slumped forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, nursing the water instead.

    “Sounds like the type of approach I could contend with... you wanna let me handle him? I can keep him off you. Maybe give you some room to focus on pinning Willis down instead.”

    “That’s probably for the best. Willis is a high-flier like me. We’ll be doing our flippy shit while you and Mitch beat the tar out of each other.” Silvio grinned. “Of course, we could practice a little, ‘Fastball Special,’ if you’re up to it. Since you can throw Jon, so you can definitely throw me. I could also use your shoulders to get higher off the ground - make more of an impact on my target.”

    King hiked a brow in interest at that.

    “Not a bad idea. I don’t know how lucid I’m gonna be, but I can still rely on muscle memory… if we take some time to practice the motions, hopefully it’ll stick and I can get the Big Guy to cooperate.”

    He snorted a bit, taking a sip of water and shaking his head. “You should practice climbing me so the lunatic in my head gets used to it. Didn’t think I’d be saying that today.”

    “No one ever expects to be where they end up,” Silvio said. “I figure if our cooperation means more skulls being bashed, the Big Guy will be more likely to acquiesce. You really know your stuff out there. You’re strong and intimidating, but you’re also technically sound. I think you’ve done this before.”

    Had he done this before?

    King hadn’t really considered it yet, but… maybe Silvio was onto something there. He did feel perfectly at home in the ring. He felt… good. Natural. Ready. At first he’d thought it was just because the Big Guy wanted to fight and fight and never stop… but he seemed to think about his approach. Even spectating from inside, Zane could tell that his mental guardian wasn’t just throwing blind punches.

    “Maybe,” he concurred, nodding a little bit. “Hell if I know. If you’re new to this, though, I couldn’t really tell. I’ve seen your fights. You look confident up there.”

    “Shucks, Zane - I’m gonna blush to my bones,” Silvio laughed, fluttering his lashes. “I never thought I could do this sorta thing. But, I put the time in, did the training, and before I knew it I was flying through the air with the greatest of ease. I wasn’t sure about it at first, but it’s been amazing. I found my tribe, y’know?” He thought of Adrienne with her Queen of Swords card and Kohaku’s vulpine smile. Even the short time he’d had with Zane was nice.

    Surprisingly, that brought a little smirk to King’s face. Maybe the most positive expression Silvio had yet seen on him.

    “That’s a good feeling. I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of thing yet, but I’m glad you trust me enough not to bail on this card. Who knows--maybe it’ll show the Big Guy we don’t have to threaten to eat every new person who steps into our line of sight.”

    “I think that’d help you to make friends and influence people,” Silvio said. “And I’m glad I didn’t bail, either. I thought my lungs were going to crawl out of my mouth when I saw that card, but I knew I needed to try and connect with you. Everybody deserves a chance.”

    It occurred to King in that moment that Silvio was the first person to give him a chance since he’d set foot onto the roster.

    His eyes softened a bit, and his shoulders relaxed.

    “Thanks, kid. That’s honestly brave of you, all things considered. I hope I don’t let you down.”

    “I get the feeling you’re not gonna,” Silvio assured him. “C’mon - let’s head to Carnage and get a little practice under our belts.”

    ARE YOU GOING TO TELL HIM ABOUT US?

    The artist frowned. Ever since that meeting with Zane, Spooky had gotten a lot mouthier. Maybe it was a result of it being fed more regularly or King being a constant stream of cosmic horror snackage.

    “You sound like a middle-schooler asking their friend to see if their crush likes them. I don’t think it’s a good idea to tell him right now. He’s got enough on his plate. Telling him, ‘Oh, by the way, the Lovecraftian being dialed into my brain thinks your insanity is delicious,’ won’t do him any favors.”

    BUT YOU WANT TO.

    Silvio, who had been in his work room preparing pieces of his tattooing equipment for a cleaning in the parlor’s autoclave, froze.

    YOU WANT SOMEONE ELSE TO KNOW.

    “Shut-up.”

    YOU DON’T--

    “I said, shut-up!”

    --WANT TO BE--

    “Shut the fuck up!”

    --ALONE.

    “I am not alone!” Silvio spat, slamming his hand down on the counter before him. “I have Adrienne, and Kohaku--”

    AND NONE OF THEM KNOW WHO YOU REALLY ARE.

    “Oh, fuck right off with that.”

    NONE OF THEM KNOW YOU WERE MURDERED IN A BASEMENT BY A CULT. YOU WERE USED AGAINST YOUR WILL TO ADVANCE THE AGENDA OF PEOPLE WHO WANTED POWER AND IT LEFT YOU IRREVOCABLY CHANGED. SOUND FAMILIAR? SOUND LIKE SOMETHING A CERTAIN LAB RAT KING MIGHT FIND RELATABLE?

    “I am more than what those people did to me.”

    TRUE, BUT IT IS A PART OF YOU YOU’VE ALWAYS BORNE ALONE, AND THAT HASN’T BEEN EASY, HAS IT? NOW YOU HAVE SOMEONE WHO MIGHT ACTUALLY BELIEVE YOU, RELATE TO YOU, AND RELIEVE PART OF THAT BURDEN. BUT YOU’RE TOO AFRAID OF WHAT THAT MIGHT SAY ABOUT RISING CARNAGE STAR, SILVIO LEON.

    “What are you talking about?”

    YOU’RE GONNA PLAY COY? OKAY. LET US SPELL IT OUT FOR YOU. YOU’RE EVERY BIT THE FREAK THAT ZANE KING IS, BUT YOU THINK YOU’RE DIFFERENT SOMEHOW BECAUSE PEOPLE CAN’T SEE IT ON YOU.

    Silvio’s gut gave an uncomfortable twist.

    OH, WHAT, NO WITTY REJOINDER? NO CHARMING WINK AND SMILE?

    “I don’t think I’m better than him.”

    NO, BUT YOU HAVE BETTER P.R. THAN HE DOES. YOU GET TO HIDE YOUR WEIRDNESS. HE DOESN’T HAVE THAT LUXURY. YOU GET TO PASS AS NORMAL; HE CAN’T. HOW DO YOU THINK THAT MAKES HIM FEEL?

    “...Alone.”

    AND WOULDN’T IT BE SUCH A BALM FOR HIM TO KNOW THAT HE WASN’T? TO KNOW THAT HE OWES THE RELIEF HE FEELS WHEN HE’S AROUND YOU TO THE FACT THAT HE IS PART OF A COMMUNITY, NO MATTER HOW SMALL? THE SAME BALM IT WOULD BE TO YOU TO FINALLY SAY THE TRUTH OUT LOUD AND ACCEPT YOURSELF FOR WHO YOU REALLY ARE.

    “I’m not a freak.”

    IF YOU SAY SO, ORACLE.

    Silvio began to raise his hand, one finger pointed skyward as he drew in a breath to retort, but stopped halfway, squinting at his arm.

    Over the course of his career as a tattoo artist, he’d managed to cover every inch of both arms in artwork. While a lot of it was a crazy quilt of images done by a variety of artists, his right forearm was covered from wrist to elbow with Alphonse Mucha-inspired, art nouveau-style flowers.

    Out of the corner of his eye...he thought he’d seen...but no. That couldn’t be.

    Standing perfectly still, breath held and heart fluttering, he waited; barely daring to blink. And then it happened again - subtle, perhaps not even lasting a second, but undeniable.

    A rose petal, inked on his skin in soft blue, stirred in an unseen breeze.

    “I’m a popular guy lately.”

    Silvio, seated on his usual high-backed chair at a dark wooden table, shuffles his deck of cards. He’s dressed in a red button-down with the sleeves pushed up above his elbows, black jeans, and white Converse, facial piercings glinting in the light. On the wall behind him, framed tattoo flash art depicts studies in juxtapositions. An axe tangled up in delicately blooming rose vines, a vivid crimson heart pierced by a wicked silver dagger, a slumbering dove perched atop a skull.

    “My dance card just keeps filling up with these multi-partner matches! But fear not, ladies, gentlemen, and non-binary babes - there is Oracle enough for everyone.”

    Giving the camera a wink, Silvio leans forward and spreads the tarot cards across the table.

    “I’ll admit,” he says, leaning back and holding up his hands, “that when I saw the card for Chaos 96, my soul may have left my body. But, once I wrangled that sucker back in, I visited my partner and we came to an agreement. There won’t be tag-partner murder this time. Not on our side of things, anyway. I don’t know what Mitch and Jon might have in mind for themselves.”

    He grins, drawing six cards toward himself.

    “But I can make a good guess. So, Mitch,” Silvio begins, tapping the first card. “You made quite an impression in your debut match. Seeing someone with that kind of capacity for violence across the ring from me is undeniably daunting. I wonder how you’re feeling right now.”

    Turning the card over reveals an image of a demonic creature crouched on a stone pillar, wings spreading over a pair of chained devils before it.

    “You don’t have a very high opinion of yourself, do you?” Shrugging, he continues. “That makes sense. Why would you throw yourself so violently at something if you thought you were worthy of preservation? So, I’m going to be walking into a match with a man who feels he has nothing to lose as far as his body goes. But is he putting something more important at risk? Because…”

    The next card that turns over shows an illustration of a woman swathed in blue silk, surrounded by wreathes of green leaves and holding a pair of staves.

    “...you want a successful conclusion for your situation. You have a purpose behind why you’re here. I know everyone does, but yours is important enough to be represented here by The World. Family, maybe? Or someone you love? Because you’re worried about…”

    Turning the third card over reveals a woman kneeling at a river beneath a star-spangled sky.

    “...the future. Or their future. You’re afraid this whole Carnage situation isn’t going to work out. That’s fair. Getting into this line of work is a pretty significant disruption. But honestly? That might work in your favor.”

    Flipping over the next card shows a depiction of a tower being blasted apart by lightning.

    “The Tower usually isn’t good news, but here, it’s something you’ve got going for you. Something in your life needs upheaval. Coming to fight here might cause some chaos, but ultimately it’ll be for the best. Still gotta watch out for things tripping you up, though.”

    The fifth card reveals an illustration of a stoic man in a starry crown directing a chariot pulled by a pair of black and white sphinxes.

    “Like your temper. That’s going to be your Achilles’ heel, and not just in this match. Last Chaos, you broke a beer bottle over the face of a guy who looks like he could punch a rhino and then make it apologize for getting in the way of his fist. I’d say you let your feelings get the better of you there. If you do that again here, things will go poorly. Let’s see how all of this all plays out.”

    Turning the last card, Silvio reveals an illustration of an angel on a riverbank with a cup in each hand.

    “Temperance,” he snorts with a grin. “So, things might look rocky and uncertain now, but if you can be mindful of your passion getting the better of you and ride this out, you’re going to reach an equilibrium; in the ring and other parts of your life.”

    Scooping up the cards, the Oracle sets to shuffling again.

    “I would, of course, be remiss not to address the other dog in this fight. Jonathan Willis; former champion and several matches deep at Carnage. Fresh off your first loss dealt to you by my partner in this match.”

    He lays the cards out in front of him and pulls six away from the lineup with one fingertip.

    “How does that make you feel?”

    The first card that’s turned over shows a young man hung upside-down from a tree by his ankle.

    “A little out of sorts, looks like. Since you debuted, you’ve been looking to reclaim your former glory, and you’ve been on a hot streak. Your opponents haven’t been slouches in any sense of the word, either. But, you hit a Zane King-shaped bump in the road. So, what does a man in your position want in order to course correct?”

    An illustration of a moon glowering at a pair of dogs barking on a river bank is revealed as the Oracle turns over the second card.

    “Clarity. You seemed to have things all figured out, but a loss throws a spanner in the works. You’re going to have to step back and rethink things. You’ve fought King already, so you have a little insight there. But you haven’t fought me yet, Willis, and I’ve already defeated one former champ. Maybe you’ll be number two. Speaking of your similarities to Knox…”

    Turning over the next card reveals a depiction of a Satanic creature presiding over two chained monsters.

    “...I know you’ve got your own personal demons to deal with. Sobriety isn't easy, and I admire you for committing to it. You might be feeling disappointed, and maybe you’re afraid of how you might try to cope with that; afraid of losing control. But, you’ve got a lot going for you.”

    The fourth card shows a woman suspended in the sky, surrounded by wreaths of greenery and clutching a pair of batons.

    “The whole World, in fact. You have past successes to buoy you - remind you of what you can accomplish. And trust me - I won’t be discounting the experience you bring to this fight. We’re a lot alike in our modus operandi - a very, ‘’scuse me while I kiss the sky,’ approach. But you’re coming into this with a broken wing. No one’s made me earthbound yet.”

    Flipping the next card shows a picture of a woman robed in white, holding the jaws of a fearsome red lion.

    “And I don’t think you’re going to be the one to ground me. Not when Strength is what’s working against you. You’re going to have to lean hard into your self-control if you want to have any success here. This goes back to what I was saying about those personal demons - the sound of them scratching at the door with all their compromises, excuses, and exceptions.” Silvio’s voice lowers into something silken, smooth and sweet as sugared smoke, as his dark eyes lift to meet the camera. “They’re still there, Jon. Are you tempted to let them in? If they promise you that gold you want so badly, will you welcome them back?”

    He holds the viewer’s gaze for a moment longer before leaning back and turning over the last card. On it, a young man in red and white robes holds a scroll aloft, an infinity symbol floating above his head.

    “The Magician here tells me if you’ve got potential borne out of the self-discipline that’s brought you this far. If you stay true to that, you’ll go far at Carnage, but that doesn’t mean it’ll give you the win at 96. You know why?”

    Gathering his cards back up, Silvio begins to shuffle. “Because neither of you is there for your tag partner. Mitch, you’re fighting for someone’s future.” He shrugs, raising a brow and grinning. “And because King pissed you off. Jon, you’re fighting to prove you’re worthy of being a champion again. Having your own motivations is important, but if you can’t mesh them with those of your partner’s, you’re not fighting as a team - you’re just two people fighting next to each other.”

    Spreading out the cards one more time, Silvio sits back.

    “That’s not the case for Zane and me.” Meeting the viewer’s gaze again, Silvio continues. “We’ve both been prey. We’ve both been trapped and used against our wills for the benefit of other people. And that is exactly why we are going to prevail here. There is no predator as effective as one who has been prey. Because having been prey, that predator will do anything to ensure they are never in that position again. We’re both here for the spectacle - each of us for our own reasons - and we’ll do what’s necessary to elevate it to something unforgettable.”

    Selecting one last card for himself, Silvio turns it over, and breaks out into a grin.

    “Well, how about that?”

    Holding up the card, he reveals an illustration of a child crowned in flowers astride a white horse, the sun smiling down upon the scene.

    “Looks like we got a matching set, partner. The Sun. Joy, success, and fulfillment.”

    Silvio winks and tucks the card back into the deck as the scene fades to black.

    “See you at Chaos, folks.”

Last Edit: Jul 28, 2020 0:36:48 GMT -5 by mystifyingoracle

Lab Rat King
Chaos Wrestlers

Pretty big, for a rat

Posts: 39

Lab Rat King/Silvio Leon Vs. Mitch Heart/Jonathan Willis Jul 27, 2020 20:53:39 GMT -5 mystifyingoracle, Jon Willis, and 1 more like this

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Post by Lab Rat King on Jul 27, 2020 20:53:39 GMT -5

^{“Why does the mind do such things? Turn on us, rend us, dig the claws in. If you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart. Maybe it's much the same.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin}

    The night sky is a deep indigo blue, a velvet blanket dappled with glimmering lights; pinpricks of flame millions of miles away, bright enough to reflect off the human eye. It fills Zane’s vision, framed along his peripheral by long, silky blades of grass. He can feel it against his skin, soft and tickling, folded beneath the weight of his back and shoulders. The sound of the wind rushing through it almost sounds like water, and the field around him ripples much like it; pulses of motion echo the beat of a tide on a calm shore.

    A profound calm accompanies the cool touch of the evening air against his face; his eyelids flicker. He breathes it into his lungs, aware of the swell of his chest, the slow pulse of his heart. Its deep rhythm resonates in his bones as though his body is a chamber built for nothing but sound.

            Ba boom. Ba boom.

    The moon is a resplendent beacon of silver, the brightest glow set against the velvet backdrop. One of the stars is brighter than the others… flickering. He almost feels as though he could reach up and touch it. When he lifts a calloused hand upward, his breath catches in surprise as he makes contact with the curious lightning bug, who crawls briefly along the length of his index finger before taking flight again to resume his dance.

    If the lightning bug flashes brightly enough, he ponders--if he flashes brightly and burns hot and never stops--will he draw the eyes he’s vying for? A dance partner to accompany him in this cool evening waltz above the grassy sea and below the velvet sky?

    Or would a butcher bird find him first?

    The wind carries something new; a voice.

    “You’re so easy.”

    The voice is cool satin. It’s the gentle kiss of winter’s first frost against his cracked lips; it’s moonlight spun into a thread, stitched with a silver needle into the cavity of his chest. He tilts his head to the side, toward it, seeking the source with a sudden aching desperation.

            Ba boom. Ba boom. Ba boom.

    “Can’t believe you fall for the dumb tranq trick every single time, Zane.”

    There’s a sudden sharp, stabbing pain in the side of his neck. His whole body jolts and he tries to scream, but no sound comes out. Instead he hacks up a clot of thick, blackened blood, rolling onto his side into the grass--

    --his cheek hits a cold tile floor. He continues to retch and cough, spattering clotted blood on the grey panel, shaking as he tries to get up onto all fours.

    “I told you--if you don’t behave, you’re gonna get the dart! Bad, bad dog!”

    He knows that mocking speech. It’s like thorns in his sides. Thorns in his neck. Thorns everywhere--!

    The thorns tighten against his skin as his vision swims in the encroaching darkness of some sedative, and he feels himself scream like his throat doesn’t belong to him. Fury. Despair. Sitting back on his knees in the dark, he can see the criss-cross of spiny rose stems squeezing tight against his discoloured flesh like a sadistic cage. They pierce and cut and scratch and his blood burns and he can’t see, can’t breathe.

            Ba boom Ba boom Ba boom Ba boom!

    Help me, he tries to scream, collapsing forward in agony, his vision blurring and his insides on fire. This can’t be happening, wake up, wake up, wake up!!

    What actually comes out of his mouth is--

    “YOU’LL NEVER MAKE ME BEHAVE!!”

            BaboomBaboomBaboomBaboomBaboomBaboom--

    The mutant’s bellow of rage swallows the silence in the dark, an eruption of noise and fury. He lashes out in reflex, slamming his deadly right hook into the nearest solid thing, which happens to be the wall.

    There’s a loud and sudden crack as he puts his hand right through the cheap plaster… but at least the impact seems to snap him back to the present.

    King is on his knees on the floor of the motel room, having fully kicked himself off the bed in his sleep. The streetlight near the window casts only a dull yellow beacon inside, illuminating the brand new wall renovation and half the mutant’s sweat-sheened face. His amber eyes are wide, pupils like black holes in the dim, and his chest swells with frantic breath.

    A nightmare. Just a nightmare.

    His breath gradually slows; he lets out a low growl, sitting back heavily with a thump against the damaged wall. He snarls and shakes his whole body like he’s still trying to shrug off a bed of thorns.

    … did that happen to me? Was that… real?

    “Rrrgh…. I told you to forget. Crush it down and smother it and bury it and forget!”

    … Okay. I… okay. I’ll… I’ll try.

    King slumps fully to the floor, staring at the sprawling white plain of the ceiling.

    “Go to sleep.”

    That’s the final voice in the night as he settles inside himself, willing his thoughts to sink into the floor. Willing his memories to fade, allowing him the grace of a few hours’ rest.

    As he drifts back toward the temporary oblivion of sleep, he thinks only of fireflies, blinking softly in the encroaching dark.

    “So… level with me, kid.”

    King cocks his head in Silvio’s direction; the two men are cooling off in the locker room after an extended training session, working on their approach for the upcoming tag match. Being lucid is still a strange, displacing feeling for the mutant, but it’s hard to argue with the fact that the ability to hold a normal, civil conversation with another human being has been… refreshing.

    “This whole thing with the Big Guy going quiet around you, and just you… it can’t be a coincidence. Is there something going on here with that psychic mojo of yours?”

    “No more than usual, I guess.” Looking at his partner, Silvio’s mouth twists and his brow knits. He hesitates, opening his mouth to continue before stopping and seeming to reconsider his words. “I do the readings for my promos and everything, and so far they’ve seemed pretty spot on. That’s the way it’s been since I started up with the tarot, though. Just kinda have a knack for it. If whatever helps me with that extends to you? Well, happy accident.”

    The mutant makes a low humming sound, pulling a t-shirt down over his bare torso. Like most shirts, it barely fits.

    “I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s something going on that’s… I dunno. Supernatural.” He shrugs. “It’s hard to be a skeptic of that kind of thing in my situation. Not that I know much about the people you’ve faced down in the ring, but I’ve seen your promos. It all seems to come from a place of confidence and... certainty.”

    He leans back a bit, eyeing Silvio’s bag on the bench. He can see the tarot deck tucked into the open top.

    “That’s them, huh? The cards.”

    Following his gaze, Silvio nods with a little smile. “That’s them. I was going to try cutting a promo later today. It’s a little more complicated when there’s two opponents.”

    King can’t help his curiosity.

    “If you really are some kind of psychic,” he says, sitting down on the bench with his eyes on the Oracle, “why don’t you try it on me? Maybe you can tell me something about myself I’ve forgotten.”

    Raising his brows, Silvio blinks at Zane, then looks back to his deck of cards. “Sure! Do you want to do it here or..?”

    King nods, retrieving his water bottle from under the bench he’s sitting on. “Here’s as good a place as any.”

    Plucking the box of cards out of his bag, Silvio shuffles the deck with practiced ease before readjusting himself and spreading it out along the bench. “Think about what you want to know,” Silvio explains, looking up at him, “and pick a card.”

    Feeling a sudden nervous pang in the pit of his chest, King’s uncertain amber eyes flicker across the row of cards. What does he want to know?

    Anything, really. Anything at all. Something to latch onto. Something real and concrete about who he used to be…

    … anything to give him a sense of direction.

    He looks up briefly at Silvio, frowning, then back down at the cards, tapping a calloused fingertip against the very first card in the row. First things first.

    Silvio draws the card, flipping it over.

    “The Moon,” he says, looking thoughtful.

    It’s moonlight spun into a thread, stitched with a silver needle into the cavity of his chest.

    King’s mouth is suddenly dry.

    “The Moon?”

    Nodding, Silvio taps the card’s illustration of a moon glowering down at a pair of barking hounds. “It signifies confusion or muddled thinking.” Giving Zane a sheepish look, he shrugs. “That’s not a huge surprise here. You’re trying to parse truth from untruth - figure out what steps to take next. There’s a lot of chaos surrounding you to be put in order before you can move forward. It could also mean that the moon itself was important to your life before you came here. Does that ring any bells?”

    Cool satin. It’s the gentle kiss of winter’s first frost against his cracked lips.

    After a moment of stunned silence, King nods ever so slightly; he stares at the floor of the locker room, his brow tight, squeezing the bottle in his hand until the plastic begins to bend.

    “Yeah,” he says at length, his husky voice low, as if he’s afraid of being heard. “Hell if I know why, but… there’s something there. It’s like trying to remember a dream…”

    “Hey...it’s alright. I’m here. We’re here in the locker room and we’re safe, okay?” Silvio assures in a soothing voice. “No one’s going to hurt us here.” He grins. “Hell, with the reputation you got, I’m pretty sure you’ll be given a wide berth no matter where in the building we go. Take your time with this; go slow.” Picking up the card, he offers it to his partner. “Do you want to keep this for a bit? I have back up cards I can use.”

    King takes the card in his hand, staring at it; after a beat of quiet, he hands it back to Silvio with a gentle shake of his head.

    “You hold onto it. For now, we need to focus on this match coming up… I don’t want to end up jarring something in my head and leaving you to deal with Heart, Willis and the Big Guy on your own. Remind me after we win.”

    He attempts a thin smile.

    “Thanks, though. I think there’s something real to this whole Oracle thing you have going on… both in how you can ground me, and in the cards. Even if I don’t understand yet why that card means something to me… it’s enough to know that I was... more than this, once.”

    “Any time, dude. And...yeah, it seems to be working out for me along with...heck, everything else. I dunno - I never thought I’d be in a place like this.” Gathering up his cards, Silvio gives a sardonic little smile. “Being a pro-wrestler never really entered my head as a possibility when I was growing up.”

    “What was it you said?” There’s the barest edge of a laugh in King’s voice. “You never expect to be where you end up?”

    Silvio laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, it’s a pretty far cry from an elementary school teacher, but hey - you roll with the punches. Sometimes literally.” Gathering up his things, he starts to get to his feet.

    “Nothing saying this isn’t a stepping stone on that road,” King replies, remaining seated; he takes a deep drink of water, sighing as he sets the bottle down. “If I can make it out this far from where I was before… no doubt in my mind you’ll get where you wanna go, Silvio.”

    He grins a little, looking up with weary eyes.

    “For now, let’s set a target for ‘the other side of victory’. After that, only an Oracle could know what happens next.”

    The trickle of a nearby sewer drain provides the urban equivalent of a stream’s ambience; the alleyway is dark, nested between a brick wall much in need of repairs, and the side of a building with dark, barred windows. Somewhere the sound of late-night drivers hums distantly in the background. A fat, long-whiskered grey rat skitters past on scratched pavement, keeping its body low and pressed to the wall as it seeks out its next meal.

    From the camera’s line of sight down on the pavement, a heavy boot treads down into view, followed by another as the imposing figure of the Lab Rat King makes his way a few steps further into the alley. He can be heard growling, swaying his considerable weight haphazardly from left to right with restless hands and twitching fingers.

    “I smell blood,” he snarls, lifting his muzzled head like a dog following a track. “Old blood… new blood! The ferrous FEAST of a fracturing fist--the drooling drip of ichor in my eyes.”

    The mutant laughs, low and raspy, turning around to face the camera. He looks down at it, a towering beast from the perspective of a sewer rat’s nose.

    “Three is the count of the broken I’ve torn through already… three sundered hearts who couldn’t stand up to my ssssscreaming!! One little birdie with broken wings. One painted boy who played the part of the bat. One monster who denied her nature and swallowed defeat instead!”

    The tone of his voice does little to hide the fact that he’s grinning. He paces back and forth in a tight, restless zig-zag, excited breath audible through the vents of his mask. The light of a nearby street lamp brings into focus the marks on him from his previous encounter, including a jagged, healing cut above his left eye.

    “And now another three hearts are beating and thundering and ROARING, ready to REJOIN THE BATTLE.”

    He stops, cocking his head in a slow motion, his wild eyes focused squarely on the lens.

    “But only two of them will meet sweet mistress Pain. Yesssss--the rat man will play nice this time, but only with ONE of you. You, the agent of ink and spectacle.” He taps his temple, near the corner of his piercing eye. “This time we tangle tails to climb the ribbed rungs together. This time a union with the Seer of Souls and the King of Vermin.”

    He leers at the camera for a long moment, until a low, rumbling growl rises in his throat.

    “The Moon is watching.”

    The camera view goes static; when it focuses back in, the mutant of a man is seated right in front of it, his body taking up the entire frame. One knee is bent up and he has his arm wrapped around it, leaning forward almost vulture-like toward the eye of the camera. His grey camo cargo fatigues are covered in dust and soot and traces of dried blood; the same can be gleaned under his fingernails.

    “The old blood… the blows I’ve tasted before. The one who has flirted with death returns to fight the rrrrreaper once more! The fissure is so fine between bravery and madness, yet you tilt your fall toward my side so willingly, Bone Boy.”

    He cracks his neck with a short chuckle, his voice guttural and rough.

    “Lady Luck left you last time, after all! Left and leavinggggg. But she wouldn’t stay--not for me, Bone Boy. Luck has never bet her blood on me. She has bet against the beast again and again and AGAIN! But I survived without her, heheh. THRIVED! I’ve spit in her face--I’m the luckless, the cursed. I never needed her lucky love at all.”

    The mutant leans closer to the camera, lowering his voice as if sharing a terrible secret.

    “I was hoping you would return to the ropes for another bite, little death-dodger. You had better not submit to the fear yet. I want you to rush me again with ALL YOUR RAGE. I’LL SWALLOW IT ALL AND SALIVATE FOR MORE…”

    He comes so close to the lens that his breath fogs the glass.

    “Any given Sssssunday, brittle mouse.”

    Another cut of static has the mutant on his feet again, pacing wildly from one alley wall to the other. He screams angrily and kicks over a metal trash can, crumpling the thing nearly in half with a loud CLANG--a cluster of rats suddenly scatter from behind it, rushing in all different directions amid scratching and squealing. He snarls, standing still but for the swell of his chest and breath.

    “The Brrrrroken…”

    He cocks his head almost all the way back, one amber eye catching the incandescent streelamp’s glow like the spark off a struck flint. That fiery glare finds the lens.

    “You made me bleed my own blood.”

    The beast crouches down; as he stands, the streetlamp’s glow casts over the shape of an empty bottle, grasped in one of his heavy hands. He seems to consider the object for a few seconds before another furious howl leaps from his throat and he pelts it at the pavement. It shatters inches away from the camera, gleaming shards left lying on the alley ground.

    “YOU DARED TO SNAP AT MY BARE TAIL WHILE I WAS RATTLED BY THE RAIL. YOU VOLLEYED YOUR VISCERAL VIOLENCE INTO THE PATH OF MY VICTORY!!”

    The mutant rushes toward the grounded camera, landing on his knees, dropping to his hands with curled, filthy fingers and a masked snarl. The mark above his eye seems stark against his pale flesh.

    “But I can feel it in you. I can TASTE IT. You thrive in the fire of the fight, just like a beast! You throw your fists to survive. The barbed wire of your bloody knuckles calls for a merciless mediation.”

    He laughs, and then begins to wheeze and cough; one hand moves to the back of his head, ripping off the strap of his mask. He retches and dips forward, only the crown of his head visible for a moment; when he raises his head up again, there’s a trail of blood tinged with black trickling from the corner of his mouth.

    His tongue laps at it, and he continues without acknowledging, eyes locked on the lens. His cracked lips curl into a sneer.

    “I can’t wait to sink my teeth into your tender throat. I’m so hungry… I crave the copper that pumps through that beaten, broken heart of yours. DON’T DOUBT FOR A MUDDLED MOMENT, BRUISER… if this bad dog sniffs you out, inside OR outside the cage, I will make you REGRET drawing my blood. And if this chance to devour you slips through my eager fingers…”

    He smirks, his eyes reflecting a wild madness, blood smeared now across his mouth.

“There is always Wwwwwwwar.”

    The feed cuts to static; a bone-white rat head, crowned in jagged spikes, flashes against the black before nothingness swallows it all.

^{[part 2 of 3 of this promo was co-written with my tag partner Silvio Leon!]}

Mitch 'The Broken' Heart
Chaos Wrestlers

Just A Miserable Bastard From Detroit

Posts: 55

Lab Rat King/Silvio Leon Vs. Mitch Heart/Jonathan Willis Aug 1, 2020 20:53:41 GMT -5 mystifyingoracle, Jon Willis, and 2 more like this

Quote

Post by Mitch 'The Broken' Heart on Aug 1, 2020 20:53:41 GMT -5

Night Ride.

The motorcycle roared down the highway. It roared probably louder than it should have. The chrome was dented and the leather shabby, the metalwork dusted with rust and the gas tank’s flame paint job covered in scuffs and in fair need of a touch-up.

It ran, though, and it ran reliably enough to make the eight hour journey from Detroit to Baltimore on the bi-weekly. At the moment it was making its trek up I-80, its rider grateful that the traffic was negligible at this late hour. The headlamp, like a glowing cycloptic eye, cut a beam of illumination through the dark, and there was nothing in front of him but the road.

It gave Mitch Heart time to think about what he’d done, and what lay ahead of him. His ribs were still sore from having Jonathan Willis thrown into him- a memory that brought a flick of fury into his mind. It wasn’t that it hurt- it did. But it felt more like an insult, and Mitch was hardly about to buy the whole ‘mindless monster’ schtick. He let this slide? Everybody knows he’s the kind of guy who takes shit. Who can be pushed around.

Lowering his head, teeth gritting, Mitch pulled back on the throttle. The bike sped forward, eating up the highway.

Nobody’s victim. Nobody’s chump. He didn’t start this fight but he’d take it as far as he needed to to end it.

The truck stop was like a blot of neon and halogen in the dark. The shadowy, blocky shapes of rigs parked in the back lot, drivers probably asleep at this hour, loomed like horizontal rectangular monoliths. The digital tick of the gas pump went upwards as the bike drank in fuel like it was dying of thirst. Keeping one eye on it, Mitch looked down at his phone. He’d gotten WIllis’ number from the HR directory and had typed it in, saved it. Hadn’t called. It was too late to call now, but maybe he should send a text. Something the other man could read later. Maybe they could talk strategy.

His gaze hardened. In his mind’s eye, he visualized not the phone, the gas pumps, the trucks, the obnoxiously bright lights- no, he saw a looming figure that intimidated everyone. Someone whose… unusual tweeting style and loud, quixotic manner of speech probably had quite a few doubting his intelligence, his sanity. Mitch knew better. He didn’t know what King’s deal was, but he didn’t buy the ‘dumb screamy hunk of muscle’ scenario some seemed to subscribe to. You don’t underestimate someone like that- but you do stand your ground. Bring it twice over. Make a standing point that you aren’t to be fucked with.

That’s what this was really about, wasn’t it. Not Silvio Leon, though he liked the kid okay and wished he wasn’t involved. Not Jonathan WIllis, who he didn’t know from Adam. This was about King and him.

Huffing slightly, Mitch pocketed his phone and released his grip on the pump as a sudden shuddering ‘clunk’ told him that his tank was full. Hanging the pump up, he expertly swung one leg over the bike and was about to turn the ignition when his phone vibrated against his chest. Withdrawing it again, a little smile flicked on his face.

He was about to tuck the phone away again when he gave a look to his surroundings. Not much coming and going. Shrugging, he didn’t roar out of the truck stop as he’d planned- instead, he moved the bike over to a picnic table, sitting on the splintered, carved-up wood with the explosion of light to his back- a mass of illumination while he sat in shadow.

Moved to the camera. Clicked ‘record’.

“I’m sure some of you people think I’m nuts.”

Mitch Heart’s face was carved in the contrast of shadow and light, his blue-glass eyes eerily luminous as they reflected the bright halogen lights from the fueling station behind him. The shot was at an odd angle, probably due to the way he had to prop his phone up, but it wound up being a fairly intimidating semi-dutch that made the rough Detroit brawler seem larger than life- almost akin to his current rival.
Happy accidents.

“In another time, another place, I might think I was nuts too. I mean, it’s usually a display of macho dick-waving to pick a fight with the biggest, baddest guy in the room, but let me put that shit to bed right off. That is NOT what this is about. I don’t have to prove how bad I am to anybody. My work speaks for itself. I mean, shit, I’m actually shocked that Leonhart’s damn nose didn’t break. But good for him, he can just keep plodding along in the same state of mush-mouthed obliviousness as ever. Whatever, he’s not my problem anymore.”

One hand rested on the opposite forearm, tucked in the sleeve of his beat up leather jacket, He ran it quickly down and off, as if casting off dust.

“And frankly, the guy they call the Lab Rat King wouldn’t be my problem either if he’d treated me with a measure of respect. But I don’t care how big or loud you are, you don’t throw shit at me. Trash, people, bricks, whatever it is. You do that, you’re telling me that I ain’t in your field of awareness. That you don’t even see that I’m there, that I ain’t worthy of your notice.”

His lips flicked up into a cold smirk.

“Bet you notice me now. Bet you were real aware of me as you were pickin’ bits of glass out of your skull. And now that I’ve got your attention, I’m gonna make damn sure that you never forget who you decided to mess with. I’ve only got eyes for you, big boy, and I ain’t nothing like you’ve ever fought before. I’m not afraid of rats. Not even gigantic, dangerous rats.”

Fingers laced together, he leaned forward, gaze hard and intense.

“I am not a young girl you can brutalize, though I noted she gave you more than you probably bargained for. I am not Zephyr Quinn, and I am not Jon Willis. Y’know, the guy that the brass picked to be my partner for this, probably after you decided to chuck him into me. Listen, Rat, I’ve seen and faced way scarier things than you and come out stronger. Whatever you throw at me, you can damn well be sure I’ll throw it back tenfold.”

Looking up suddenly, Mitch tapped at his scruffy chin.

“Speaking of my partner. And, let’s put it all out on the field, your partner. The truth is? I’d rather neither of them were there. I said it before. I only have eyes for you. Leon, you’ve been decent to me, which is more than I can say for a lot of people. I don’t want you to wind up collateral damage, but I can’t promise you won’t. And that goes for you too, WIllis. You may be my partner, and you want to fight Leon, that’s cool. But the Rat King is all mine, and I’m not about to let you or anybody else get in the middle of my battles. So, long story short, stay out of my way and neither of you will have anything to worry about. Keep your share of the action between yourselves.”

The camera is suddenly lifted up, Mitch’s eyes boring straight into the viewer’s with an unsettling intensity. His voice is deadly quiet.

“Are we crystal on that? … Good.”

Rolling his shoulders, Mitch cracked his neck before setting the phone back where he’d nestled it between the slats of the table. His voice raised up to its normal tone.

“I got a long road ahead of me, and…”

He paused. There seemed to be a pall of concern falling over his expression, as if debating whether or not to finish the sentence. Clearing his throat, he continued.

“...and I made promises to people. I gotta go keep ‘em. But even as I keep those promises, you’re gonna be at the back of my mind, Rat. I actually kind of hate you for that. I don’t want to think about you while I’m trying to do shit that’s a million times more important. But I gotta. I can’t sleep on you for a second because I know how dangerous you are. But I wonder... “

He leaned in close, eyes narrowing.

“...if you know just how dangerous I am. Cuz if you don’t know? You will by the time I’m done with you.”

Reaching forward, Mitch’s hand covered the screen as the feed went black.

Parking his bike, Mitch looked up at the four story brick building. Yawning, he checked his watch- it was coming up on 5 a.m. and he had a day at the zoo ahead of him. It was okay though. If he was tired he wouldn’t show it. This was too important for that.

Climbing up the stairs to the fourth floor, he ambled tiredly to the end of the hall, sticking his key in the lock in an automatic manner. He kept his movements quiet as he slipped inside, unceremoniously throwing his jacket and backpack onto the shabby, threadbare couch. Shuffling through the combination living room/dining room and past the kitchen, he made his way through the small hallway, the walls covered with watercolor murals- one of a meadow with deer and birds and butterflies, another an arctic scene with fluffy polar bear cubs and chubby seals. Two doors were at the end, one midway was the bathroom. He placed his hand on the door to the right but paused. He was tired, exhausted. Much longer and he’s sure he’d be out on his feet. But he couldn’t go to bed just yet- there was one more little thing he had to do.

Turning, he glanced at the other door, the one with penguin stickers all over it. Slowly, he turned the knob and opened it.

A little girl of around ten or eleven, with sandy hair to match her brother’s, was fast asleep in her bed, arms tucked around a well-seasoned stuffed penguin.The night light was on, casting a soft ambience over the art supplies, second-hand toys, and well used kids’ furniture.

Smiling gently, Mitch quietly entered the room, taking care not to step on anything or make any noise. Carefully sitting on the side of the bed, he gently brushed the girl’s hair out of her face, pressing a light kiss to her temple.

Stirring just slightly, Pen rolled over, smiling and muttering something that sounded like ‘daddy’. Mitch frowned at that. Pen seemed happy with him. He busted ass to make sure she was as fulfilled and cared for as he could possibly manage. Maybe he wasn’t the best person for this job. Maybe this wasn’t an ideal situation for a kid to grow up in. But there was one thing, if anything, that Mitch Heart was positive about.

“Alex ain’t no ‘daddy’ to you, kiddo. Not in nothin’ but technicals.”

Sighing, Mitch got up, slipped out of the room and closed the door again, making his way to his own room across the hall. He barely had time to kick his boots off before he faceplanted onto the bed, asleep before he hit the somewhat lumpy pillows.

Jon Willis Chaos Wrestlers I Am Relentless Posts: 54	Lab Rat King/Silvio Leon Vs. Mitch Heart/Jonathan Willis Aug 2, 2020 1:17:17 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by Jon Willis on Aug 2, 2020 1:17:17 GMT -5 The Ballad of DJ 2TURNT
	18

Act of Defiance 2021

Lab Rat King/Silvio Leon Vs. Mitch Heart/Jonathan Willis

Post by Webmistress Barbie on Jul 23, 2020 7:39:21 GMT -5

Post by mystifyingoracle on Jul 27, 2020 20:51:37 GMT -5

Post by Lab Rat King on Jul 27, 2020 20:53:39 GMT -5

Post by Mitch 'The Broken' Heart on Aug 1, 2020 20:53:41 GMT -5

Post by Jon Willis on Aug 2, 2020 1:17:17 GMT -5